Rewrite
by ikkiichiyuu
Summary: Rewritten as Transliterations
1. Chapter 1

**I've been a wee bit busy, but I couldn't help myself. Call it a literary itch that I had to scratch.**

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He had not really understood _why_, when he stayed unchanging as all those around him continued to grow older, wiser, weaker. But with all his years with the Dursleys, the lesson had been learnt – _never_ stand out. Layers of glamour and illusions were augmented with potions, and Harry lived out his life. But now he knew, as he sent his last friend into the unknown.

All Hermione saw was the smiling visage of her parents, standing together with Ron. She stepped into their outstretched embrace, with barely a glance for her aged body on the bed.

Death was a formless entity. She – he had decided that Death was female – maintained no form till the instance of collecting a soul, appearing as the image that each dying person had envisioned her. Sometimes she wore different garbs and different skins – a winged angel at times, a skeleton at others, a large Grimm, faces of loved ones long past.

The souls were always reaped with patience and care, no matter the purity of the soul. There was an aching sort of tenderness as she carefully washed them – absolving the souls of whatever darkness and evil, along with shimmering silver, which he identified as experience, evidence of living through trials and tribulations.

He would like to have known where the souls went, but she could never reply him with even one word, and the barrage of mental images that she sent him in answer were always distorted and blurred.

He was done with the Wizarding World for now, seeing as his friends had all passed on, and that all his children and his godson were living reasonably peaceful lives.

She lived different lives in so many realms, multifaceted as they were, yet she was one entity. Time and space was no obstacle. Harry could be everywhere at once as well, if he deigned to take note of her presence.

He called for Death, and took her outstretched hand.

He was the Master of Death, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Note: This will be Thor-movie canon, or as close as I can make it. I did more research, and decided on taking the creative route (aka selective reading and writing). This story is called 'Rewrite' for a reason (laughs).**

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The world melted around him, and suddenly, he was in a cavernous room. The walls were carved and painted, expansive landscapes depicting greenery rivaling Neville's gardens (the last time he had seen it), next dominated by buildings of gold and silver, was the red-hot destruction of the landscape, seemingly ravaged by fire and magma.

It was the most beautiful yet horrifying artwork he had ever seen. And in the all-consuming darkness of the panel of art, where Harry interpreted as the end of the world, stood a woman. Her voice was gloomy, and all Harry could see of her was the shadows that clung to her.

"Welcome to Niflheim, Master of Death. I am Hel, presiding over the dead of the Nine Realms who hath not passed under the glory of valour."

Harry moves to speak, but Hel continues, "I have been entrusted with the voice of death, for the only words that she speaks is understood by the dead. The Hallows three hath decided on a Master worthy, and Death now implores you to save the balance of the worlds and all the life that it holds, oh Master of Death."

"I… I don't understand. Save the worlds?"

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**Short little thing, isn't it? ****Thought that I would write a little while I do some errands. I realized a few loopholes - large enough to sail Titanic through - but those will be fixed in the later chapters.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Getting out the introductory chapters as soon as possible, but they're really short because I can't seem to mesh them up well. The consecutive chapters are longer, I promise.**

**And as _goddess of all daleks_ has kindly mentioned, my tenses _are_ fond of jumping. I cannot, for the life of me, recall any formal (and structured) instruction in English. **

**But I digress with my excuses. It would be much appreciated if any of you would point out the glaring mistakes so that I may correct them...**

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Harry slouched onto the banister, overlooking the vast estate from Hel's abode. The vast lands were created from the bordering realms of fire and ice, and the gardens held a seductive beauty in the perpetual mist.

_(Thanos… He is born of madness.) _

Hel's words were a heavy burden in his heart.

_(The Mad Titan seeks to erase all Life as a tribute to Mistress Death.)_

The frightening thing was that he could sense that the problem was very real. It was shutting his mental processes down – the magnitude of the request was enormous, and he was jumping in blind.

_(Mistress Death only works to reap the souls so that life may be born again.)_

The revelation that all of the worlds in the universe, he was the only one who had mastered all three Hallows – the other worlds had either destroyed the Hallows or themselves.

_(Without Life, there is no Death, and with no reaping, there is no Essence for which Life to be born again.)_

He was her Master, and it was his obligation to steer the fates away from destruction whilst she reaped the souls to fuel Life.


	4. Chapter 4

**I call this the first 'true' chapter. I'm writing ahead, but the characters are getting a tad whiny about being put to work in my plot. Le sigh.**

**I've taken liberties with the plot. Bear in mind that this story is adapted from the movie canon, and whatever internet research that I've dredged up and deigned fit to squeeze in.**

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(There is not enough of Essence at hand to delve into the making of Thanos.)

"How will I know what to do?"

Hel shifts, and Harry gets the feeling that she's smiling, even if he cannot see it, "There is no one judgment that is solely right, and there is no one decision that cannot be justified, oh Master of Death. Inaction or not, there are consequences."

(I fear that you may only go back far enough to make his March of Death cease in its footsteps.)

The situation weighs heavy on him, and Harry feels nausea from the bottom of his stomach.

"Fret not, oh Master of Death, for the threads of the Norns shall not encumber you. I shall see you in my far past then, Master of my Master."

He barely has breath for even a word or even a scream when he falls backwards into a void.

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Death's presence is heavy in his mind, but it is little comfort as he falls into the unending void in between the worlds. The panic has faded long ago, and it feels he has spent decades, watching stars brighten and fade into the black.

The worlds go past, and Harry discovers the true depth of the universe, underneath the dusting of stars and the kaleidoscope of every imaginable color. He sees the fabric of the universe and the strings of existence that he identifies as _magic_, in its unbridled and untainted form.

Harry has only barely scratched the implications of his discovery when he arrives at his destination. 'Arrival' is a mild way of putting it, especially when he crashes into the ground at high enough speeds to create a crater wide and deep enough to fit the whole of Little Whinging.

And for all his immortality, he is left helpless as his body begins to literally pull itself together. It feels like Skele-Grow all over again, except that the nauseating feeling permeates from the very insides of his brain to the surface of his skin. He can literally feel his bones _un-fracture _themselves, and his internal organs slither back together whilst his skin itches as if something is crawling underneath.

The healing is faster than the average human, but it will take at slightly under a week to recover fully. Death stands at the edge of his vision, a watchful albeit translucent sentinel for the better part of the day as the sun scorches his skin. She quickly fades out of his sight as the sounds of clanking metal approach.

"My Lord… this is…"

"Bind him to ensure that he does not escape. He is to be presented to the All-Father as Heimdall as ordered."

The figures are silhouetted by the setting sun, and all Harry can do is concentrate on his breathing. His ribs crack when they apply their weight on him to prevent struggling, as if they expect him to exert monstrous force in attempting an escape.

Harry blacks out when his still-healing wrists are fractured by the sheer weight of his restraints.

(Your thoughts will define the future; your actions will carve those foundations.)

He's been folded over broad shoulders, and Harry consoles himself with the fact that he hasn't been dragged across the ground like a carcass, because the terrain that they are traversing is all sharp rocks and dead forest.

(I wish you luck, oh Master of Death.)

He awakens a few times to nausea before succumbing to the sweet bliss of darkness, but he keeps himself awake when he is jostled roughly through blinding whirls of light and movement. His 'transport' lands with steady feet, which Harry is thankful for, because another hard knock will not do wonders for his current condition.

"The All-father awaits you in the Throne Room."

"Thank you, Heimdall."

Another wave of black overwhelms him when he is transferred from shoulder to the back of a horse, but Harry swears that the rainbow-covered ground is not a figment of his imagination, even if the nausea and the colors are reminiscent of the effects of Fainting Fancies.

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**So many possibilities, yet only one that to choose. Who knows, I could take apart this one and revise it (beyond all recognition) someday.**

**Written: 15/12/2012**

**Revised: 17/12/2012**


	5. Chapter 5

**Last update for the foreseeable future (at least till after Christmas), seeing as the rest of my week is pretty much filled up with activities. **

**So... This is the part where I wish the lot of you a Christmas filled with fun & an awesome New Year. The rest of you who believe in the end of the world, have a happy last few days left!**

**A few hints, and much foreshadowing...**

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He jolts awake at the sensation of falling, and Harry barely has the energy to give voice to the _sheer_ pain that screams through his body when he lands on the floor from a great height. The pain blots out his mental processes before it recedes enough to process garbled voices.

"….my King… Heimdall… war grounds… Elven… the one who fell from the skies. We set off for the lands of Alfheim, and found him where Heimdall had Seen. And by his word, we brought him back for your direction."

The recent shock of pain has released enough adrenaline to clear his muddled thoughts, and Harry ignores the pain long enough to register the golden hall. There is a man – no, perhaps the best way to describe is – there is a _King_ on the throne, decked out in armor, looking down at him.

"Unbind him."

The shackles come off immediately, and Harry doesn't know whether to be happy or not for the release in his restraints as his wrists snap back. The fractured bones rub against bone and flesh, and a strangled moan of agony makes it out between his clenched teeth.

His head is tilted up, and Harry's eyes snap open to see sky-blue orbs staring into his own. He feels his spine arch to straining point at the intrusion attempt, and Harry forces himself to maintain the mind contact whilst shielding everything but the pain and the truth in his mind.

'_**What are you? For such a youthful visage, your mind is aged, and your veins sing of seidr. What do you seek – power, bloodshed, destruction and death?'**_

Even in his own mind, the king's inner voice is of tempered experience colored with grief, and it brings a foreboding of war, the thirst for blood of his enemies. Years of diplomacy between different Wizarding Colonies have at least hammered home the importance of a starting statement, so Harry replies in deference.

'_I am Harry. I am my own person – I came to your lands through no choice of my own – and despite the hospitality of your men, I am disinclined to bring about suffering or loss of life unless in defense of my own… your royal highness.'_

'_**Very well, seidmenn. Tread carefully, lest our weapons make their mark on a deceitful heart.'**_

The connection is broken off, "Bring him to the Healing Chambers. Have Eir attend to him."

"But my King, his eyes are red like the Jotnar. He is the enemy!"

"SILENCE!" The hall falls silent, "his eyes bleed, not unlike a hard blow to the head. He is grievously injured, which is why Heimdall sent you to retrieve him, and his condition has been made worse through his shackles and harsh travels."

The leader stammers his apologies, but the King has no heed of it.

The guards move at a more sedate pace, but his escorts are brutishly strong, and ribs protest at the frog march. By the time his escorts have brought him to the healing chambers, the route that they have travelled is spotted with blood conceived by violent hacking.

"Eir! Odin All-father has decreed that you attend to him."

Through his hazy vision, maidens – there is only that one word to describe them – appear out of the flowing cloth partitions, dressed in white and flowing material.

One of the women steps out from the crowd, "I shall do as the All-father decrees. If you would assist me in getting him onto the bed, honorable guards." They set him on the bed none too gently, and as the healers assess his injuries by poking and prodding him, one of them pours a honeyed liquid down his throat.

It washes away the coppery blood clogging his tongue, as well as his awareness. He recognizes Eir purely by the sound of her voice, and the tones of her voice accompany the caressing touches of the healing magicks – it is the only thing that keeps him anchored between drifting off into oblivion and the fleeting pinches of pain.

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**I have no idea what you readers are thinking. I'd really like to know.**

******Srsly. **

******Read, review, ask me questions.**

******Anything.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Early Xmas present to dearest readers, I guess.**

**To those who have given me feedback, I thank you. It's permission to take things further. ;)**

**As for the rest, good job on surviving the end of the world, folks.**

**Anyway, I'm still in the middle of fleshing out the storyline a lil' bit more. I've got points A & B, but I don't want to just draw the straight line. I'm not too keen on adding any more than the cinematic Marvel side of things, but we'll see how it goes, alright?**

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It is twilight, but the large window lets in enough residual sunlight to light the large chamber. He stretches his senses out for the innate magic that he has associated with the Aesir, not unlike a fisherman's net; the room is nearly void of life, save the guards at the door… and the lady healer standing at corner of the fabric partitions.

He twitches, and she is quick to show her hands, bared to the elbows as a sign of mutual vulnerability, "I mean you no harm, Warrior."

She crosses over to his bedside when he relaxes, and Harry allows her to maneuver him into a sitting position. His robes are gone, replaced by a loose fitting tunic and pants. He has long passed mortification – it seems that even in different worlds, Healers frown upon bloodied and torn clothes. There was something about hygiene and the works, but usually the pain is too much for him to care about the specifics. She is gentle, but Harry has no disillusions about her strength; if she is indeed cut from the same cloth as the people that he has already met, a flick of her limbs and he would be the only one with broken bones.

She checks him over, and when he savors the air in a deep breath as per her instruction, he is somewhat pleased to find that his lungs are already clear of blood and puncture-free. His bones still ache deeply, the bone tissue is barely healed enough to withstand movement.

She makes him take a mouthful of the sweet liquid from earlier, which sends a wash of warmth through his body. It is a relaxant… and when she asks the first question – What brings you to Asgard, Warrior? – to which his answer is that he has no idea at all, the muted alarm bells tell him that it is a form of Veritaserum.

She coaxes him to take another sip, and Harry cannot refuse either draught or interrogation without becoming suspicious; he cannot tell whole lies, so he settles for half-truths. With every sip his body relaxes, so the only giveaway is the tone of his voice and the nuances in his gaze.

"You heal fast." It could be taken as a mere observation, but Harry plays along and answers. _It is the… heritage of his people_, which is truth in the barest form, given that the Hallows have been passed down from person to person. The immortality granted by the combined Hallows is just one of the unforeseen bonuses.

She interrogates him, and he makes a game out of answering the questions in a roundabout way, telling her of his origins using more euphemisms than Hermione ever had in the lifetime of their friendship. The situation is bizarre, comical even, under the drugging effects of the liquid, but Harry is sure that patient confidentiality is practically non-existent in war times, alien world or no.

"Rest well, Herja, Son of Hreindýrin and Lilju," the last words are strange to his ears, but the meaning _translates_, strange as it is. She calls him the son of 'the deer' and 'the lily'.

The last sip sends him into deep sleep, because she does not question him any further.

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"The All-father calls upon you, sister," Bjort softly intones, whilst taking over her duties seamlessly, fetching another set of bandages for the man. Eir thanks her, and quickly heads to the door, where the guards lead her to a private meeting room. Frigga is there, smiling placidly at her.

"My King. How may I serve you?"

At their permission, she takes a seat.

"Tell me about the man currently in your care."

There is an impenetrable silence, before Eir takes a deep breath, and composes her thoughts into words. The man has answered her questions whilst under the sedative draught, and she can sense no blatant untruth in his words.

Her patient speaks with variation derived of the Immortal Languages, but some of the words that he uses are lost in translation. He is _Herja_, son of Hreindýrin and Lilju. He is seemingly on a search, but has no inkling of what has led him here.

He speaks of war in his youth, and hints at several more afterword, and has the evidence to prove it. He is a true warrior in his own right – the scars on his body are testament to his trials and tribulations – and barely sounds out a protest when the worst of his wounds are prodded at. She tells them of his injuries, how it is a miracle for such a brittle-boned being to survive injuries that would have killed one of them, belonging to the race of demi-gods.

She is mildly surprised when Odin bids her to stay and even consults with herself and Frigga.

He speaks of the clarity of thought and conviction of _Herja_'s promises on not harming anyone. He knows a binding promise when he experiences it, and Eir can sense the admiration in her King in the form of the seidr that flows through his veins; normally her King's magic floods forth in aggression, and spikes in the presence of bloodshed.

It is one of the rarer moments when Frigga smiles _and_ asserts her own persuasions, "He will be good for the Realm Eternal, and the sakes of the Nine."

It is not a mere statement; the Queen's eyes are clouded over, as if remembering a long-forgotten dream.

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**I like the teeny tiny plot devices that I cram inside of stories, but all too often I forget their existence. Like a squirrel, I guess. **

**Therefore, look out for notes on major revamps in the story in the future, or possibly one shots in the Rewrite Universe.**

**Do share your thoughts.**

**Over and out.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Tis the season for belly stuffing, so I hope that you've enjoyed the awesome foods that the season has had to offer.**

**A little short, but I'm writing ahead. I'm about to cut Harry's back-story (by a lot), so that the story can progress much faster, with it sticking to the current ratings for now.**

**I will be bumping up the ratings for blood and guts and _maybe_ a little bit of mature action, so you, the readers have been duly warned.**

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The second time he awakens is just as dawn stretches sunbeams into the room, when his magic stirs from disturbances.

The Elder Wand makes its presence known as soon as he wakes; the pockmarked wood pulses with warmth, begging to be used. He gently coaxes it into the ether with the Cloak and Ring before cracking open an eye to survey his surroundings.

A raven is perched on the foot of his bed, quickly joined by another, obsidian feathers glittering in the sunlight. He watches as they hop around and preen each other, keeping at least one sharp eye on him at all times.

It is then that he catches something shifting at the corner of his vision, and the ravens fly toward it. The King stands at the window, murmuring to two ravens perched on his arm before sending them off beyond Harry's field of vision.

"You are awake, Hreindýrinson," the term niggles at his brain before he realizes that it is what Eir had called him. Son of the deer. It figures that there is no patient _confidentiality_ in war times, alien world or no.

It is more of a call to acknowledge the King's presence than a statement, so Harry replies in acknowledgement, that his speedy recovery has been at the efforts of the healers attending to him.

The king scrutinizes him, and Harry feels as if those eyes are picking him apart.

"As you have may have deduced, I am the Sovereign of the Realms Eternal. I am Odin All-father."

Harry keeps his face straight and nods – he had _suspected_, but the revelation is still akin to a punch in the gut – while clamping down on the rising panic of his current situation. He is successful, it seems, when Odin continues.

"We are in times of unrest and unease. The realms whisper of war and each have rallied their warriors. They sharpen their weapons and weave their spells in preparation for the battle cries," the King's voice sounds of resignation and fierce protection.

"You would have enjoyed a better reception by my guard if not for the tidings of war, Hreindýrinson."

He can see where this is going now; Odin wishes to wrangle at least a pledge, if not an oath. No doubt Healer Eir has reported the vague details of his somewhat prominent involvement in the wars back home, so Harry merely replies that he _understands_ the predicament.

It is the _best_ reaction that he can scrounge up from Odin's I-am-sorry-but-not-really statement, without fudging things up. At best he would end up in the dungeons, and at worst he would be beheaded for his comments, and Harry does not wish to find out the extent of his _immortality_, because he is technically still alive with a body that is for all intents and purposes, _human, _in all its glory, pain receptors included.

It is inevitable that Odin steers the conversation towards the safety of his kingdom, from _intruders_ and bearers of ill will. The roiling unease of the man's magic forces Harry to renew his binding promise, and even extend the reach of his binding oath to the protection of the frail and the helpless.

The offer does not extend to the battlefield because he is wary; it takes more than one party to escalate a war, and he does not know which side he is on.

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**As always, my stories are up for you readers to interpret; I do appreciate constructive criticism, even if I don't reply. I just find it better (and more constructive) to keep your views in mind while typing out the next few chapters.**

**Lemme know what you think.**


	8. Chapter 8A

**This is an explanatory section. You _could_ skip this part, but it clarifies some of the concepts behind some of Harry's actions.**

**Warms the cockles o' my heart, aye, if you folks could bring up more questions, if any.**

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**12/27/12**

**1. Painxsmile**

I don't get the "binding oath to the protection of the frail and the helpless. The offer does not extend to the battlefield because he is wary; it takes more than one party to escalate a war, and he does not know which side he is on." part.

If there is war then there are going to be many frail and helpless people right?  
Then he is bound to fight for them when the war starts.

**Explanation**

Through chapters 5-7, I have left tiny insinuations of Harry's role in his 'past' life. And that is the reason why he takes the oaths of his own accord; because he has had plenty of experiences.

To take an oath of your own accord would mean that you yourself are defining the boundaries of your future actions, and it (the oath) is subject to your own interpretations. To supply an oath on another's explicit request would be to bind your own self to the boundaries that the other party has set.

In the first, he states his right to self-defence, in reaction to Odin's threat.

In the second, Odin's concern is the _"__safety of his kingdom, from intruders and bearers of ill will."_ (The community or territory over which a sovereign rules; it is commonly used to describe a kingdom or other monarchical or dynastic state.) Harry then reinforces his oath to protect the frail and helpless in Odin's realm, again on his own terms.

The oath is by no means extended to Asgardians outside of Asgard, or situations where Harry is not physically/mentally present – and no sane person would wage war within their own house/city/country if they could help it – unless their enemies have pushed the boundaries of war so far.

Also, it is widely accepted (at least where I live) that the 'frail and the helpless' describe the young, females, and the elderly, as well as those who do not have the ability to defend themselves from threat.

Soldiers on the battlefield cannot be considered as 'frail' or 'helpless' – by entering the service, they have already _understood_ and _accepted_ the possible risks, and by entering the war, their lives are as good as forfeit unless they can defend themselves.

The real laws are iffy like that.


	9. Chapter 8B

**The _real_ chapter. **

**This particular set of chapters is a character arc (just in case you haven't noticed). I don't believe in randomly dropping characters into a totallyunrelated!verse.**

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Odin grants him leave to wander Asgard the moment the binding oath takes, but Harry doesn't venture beyond the confines of the healing chambers. There is the unspoken understanding that entry to the more _sensitive_ areas is not to be contested, but Harry has neither need for the weapons vault nor the secret inner workings of the Realms Eternal. It is not a conscious choice to do so; his internal injuries are hardly healed and the healers are far more insistent and intimidating than Madam Pomfrey and his first interactions with Snape.

Instead, he watches as they work. The quarters are void of patients – save for Harry – but there are many things to be done even in the lull. Medicinal salves to be made, brew and draughts to by concocted. There are some familiar plants, but he does not have Neville's expertise in botany to judge for himself.

All of them wield wicked-looking blades with startling proficiency, and even though it is used mostly in the preparation of their craft, he has no doubts about their deadliness. His beliefs are mostly confirmed when they acquiesce to his request to see the blades up close – the runic inscriptions are familiar, but he can hardly read the heavily stylized script, if not mainly because of the fact that he has only ever used the Nordic rune set for 'protection' in setting wards. And even then, it was only effective when the property was set on the right lei lines.

The acquisition of knowledge has always been more of Hermione's specialty, whilst his has always been to take action on the immediate relevant and ones, and Harry feels the absence of his lifelong friend more strongly at that realisation. Still, he takes up the task.

He asks them questions, and they are happy to share their knowledge of the healing arts – most probably because the availability of the herbs and roots are near impossible to attain unless one is a Healer – and gladly tutor him in the basics of the runic alphabet. The ranks and stations of the Asgardians are easily denoted by the layers and colours of their clothes, and Harry listens closely; apparently, almost any kind of friction between two parties _can_ be escalated to duels, especially under the influence of alcohol.

It is almost a full week before he is cleared to leave the watchful eyes of the Healers, and Eir escorts him to one of the guest rooms in the lower levels of the castle. It's a stretch to say that the chambers are _humble_, because the room to be his rightly puts his previous 'VIP' accommodations to shame. The ceilings are high enough to make the room cavernous, and the furnishings are made of dark wood and fine fabrics.

Eir leaves him discreetly gawking at the room, but not before emphasizing Asgard's hospitality. All he has to do is ask for directions to the main dining halls, the royal library, the gardens, or the duelling rooms.

The bed is about three times larger than what he is used to, and the fireplace brings a wave of nostalgia. The wardrobes are bare, but Harry is no stranger to transfiguring cloth into clothes. He mourns the lack of a modern toilet,

He pauses at the stranger staring at him from the other side of the mirror – his features are unbearably _young_, his hair too long, and the sum of his features make him appear to be more boy than man. He hasn't seen this version of himself except in yellowed photographs, and it brings back many memories.

Too many childhood memories, all tinged in regret, grief and guilt.

The situation is far too late for potions; he is sorely lacking in the ingredients department, and scouting for suitable ingredients will have more failures than successes in this alien realm. Layered glamours have always been tricky, and he doesn't know whether the inherent magic in the Aesir will render his 'disguise' useless.

The castle is a sprawl of hallways with twists and turns, but Harry's got it covered; a trail of fairy lights dot the ceiling, like lights specifically for him to return to his chambers. There is one _drawback_ to the ingenuity – the lights follow the path that he has taken, which means that he has to backtrack _all _the way with no shortcuts.

His first meal outside of the healers' chambers is slightly awkward; the blatant staring and subdued conversation that goes on at the table that he has selected doesn't make up for the fact that the food reminds him of the feasts at Hogwarts.

The height disparity is negligible, but next to them, he feels like a scrawny child. An Auror's pride lay – he _is_ a retiree – in speed, magical ability and instincts, but the diagnosis so far is that the average Aesir is less susceptible to injury, and definitely a hell lot stronger than he could ever hope to achieve, judging from the sheer _bulk_ of armour and weaponry. He hightails it out of there the moment he starts feeling full with an intelligible mutter, and makes the decision to seek out the healers' chambers for the rest of his meals in the foreseeable future.

It takes no less than four patrols to lead him in the right direction of the libraries.

He doesn't expect the vastness of the libraries.

And he certainly doesn't expect the Queen of Asgard to find him nestled in an alcove trying to figure out the language beyond the individual runes and the rare word.

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**As always, would love to know what you think**.


	10. Chapter 9

**Just one chapter more before we get properly started on the Marvel Cinematic Timeline, a.k.a. A.D. 925.**

**I've left some indicators so as to when in the timeline Harry has fallen into, but it seems that no one has caught on. Too subtle? (Laughs)**

* * *

He senses her presence before he sees her, but his mind only registers the fact that the Queen of Asgard is before him _after_ mentally running through Eir's descriptions of the esteemed Queen. The regal posture, tumbling curls of soft brown, shimmering jewels from the Nine, and resplendent tailored fabrics… there is no other person who could quite fit the image as the healer has described.

A part of him – the part where the Sorting Hat has _seen_ in him so many decades ago, the Slytherin side of him – takes control of the situation immediately, smoothly unfolding his self from the confines of the chair, placing the book on the table with nary a sound. The moves are all calculated, as he steps out from the furniture, keeping eye contact all this while. But then again, growing up has had him seeing different things – things that he had neither noticed nor expected. More caution than courage, tempered from failed negotiations and observations of successful ones.

He bows deeply, right hand over heart, but he doesn't say anything, yet. He _is_ British, and the customs have been drilled into him, by _Petunia_ of all people, on how to greet royalty in the exceptional _rare_ event – _you_ _speak when spoken to_.

She steps towards him, footsteps light, and touches his shoulder, "Please rise,"

He does so, and she motions him sit on one side of the alcove as she moves to sit on the other.

The conversation starts as most do – the weather as of late, his state of health – after which Frigga requests him to dispense with the formalities. He stops with starting his sentences with the utmost respect, but he doesn't drop her title when addressing her.

He defers to her wishes when he realizes that she already knows of his circumstances – it could very well be common knowledge now – and surrenders himself to further prodding. She treads softly but surely, steering the conversation to predictions, of which he answers that predictions are merely products of empirical evidence. Predictions are laughably easy when one knows all the variables, and even more simple – infinitely so – when the results have been replicated.

He moves on to contrast the differences between guesswork and predictions, and she agrees, as if she has known all along. Harry continues with the suspicions in his mind's eye, and sees her body language shift when he mentions _prophecies_. She moves forward just a fraction of an inch, and her hands stop fidgeting in her lap.

Eir may have had the help of that odd truth sedative, but the one before him is a Queen, and it is almost a certainty that she is schooled in the arts of seeing through lies. The game of Slytherins is over; it is in his best interests to refrain from lying, especially if her emotions are transferred over again in an accidental brush of magic.

It's a burst of despair, hope, wariness, openness – a mass of emotions that he has felt countless times.

And her eyes… it's almost as if she expects to see a kindred spirit in him.

* * *

The darkening skies outside accompany the last words of his narrative, doing no wonders in improving the overwhelmingly off-putting atmosphere.

Muffled fanfare echoes then, even within the vastness of the great library, and Harry mirrors Frigga's attempt in exiting the alcove.

"It appears that my husband has returned from his inspection of the artificers of Asgard. Would you join us for the feast? It is an appropriate time for you to be introduced into the court as our Guest."

It seems as offhand a comment can be, but Harry has no plans to alienate himself from the entire populace, much less their Esteemed Queen.

* * *

It is an uncomfortable place to be, to be seated near the head of the table, closest to the Sovereign. The King and Queen draw eyes from the rest of the hall, and Harry suffers by default as well, even though they hide their suspicion under well-meaning compliments.

He is young by their judgment, and they assume that attention and affection is something that he sorely needs, having travelled far. Dark hair is a rare sight in Asgard, so they comment on the unusual lustrous black, not unlike the King's ravens. They compare his eyes to the finest of Dwarven emeralds, a color that they have yet to see in another's eyes.

Then the bombshell is dropped.

Odin All-father has proclaimed him a new addition to the Royal Court, as an independent advisor. The chatter as well as protests are silenced by the thump – which Harry could duplicate with a variation of the Sonorous Charm, now that the silence allows him to finally think – of the King's hand against the table, and quelled when the King reinforces his statement.

The food comes in then, and the mood resets itself. Jokes, jests and jeers are thrown up and down the table, boisterous camaraderie between warriors. Ladies of the court share glances, giggles and whispered words. The entire atmosphere feels alien to him, even as he watches how they try to draw him into the fold, when he clearly knows nothing of the past wars and glorious battles.

He is loath to follow their customs when it comes to dining, choosing instead to use the cutlery provided over the warriors' choice – full-fingered grasping of the succulent roasted meats. It is a safety precaution; he would rather his wand to be in a firm grip if he needs it right away – perhaps to levitate one of these Norse Vikings should they fly his way – than do a flick and swish and end up impaling someone's eye.

The food is more like ash than the savory taste that he has sampled from before, the mead is laughably weak and watery in comparison to Firewhiskey, and he is at a loss.

There is no conceivable way for him to _not _stand out anymore.

* * *

The feast has ended, and he follows the King and Queen to a more private setting.

They've backed him into a corner with that declaration, and Harry has the urge to do only one thing, except that he cannot quite figure out how to take on the whole army of Asgard after a successful attempt at regicide.

He stands until they have seated themselves, only taking a seat when they gesture, and keeps his eyes averted.

"I give you leave to speak, Hreindýrinson," it is not so much as permission, but the prelude to an order.

"_With all due respect, _Your Royal Highness, I find myself unable to articulate the situation you have put one such as myself in," the first part is an insult, but one that many do not get, unless they are British. It works just as well in calming himself down, a petty dig because they do not _understand_.

* * *

The apple weighs heavily in his hand, both literally and figuratively. It weighs about as much as a watermelon, and is most likely the source of the Aesir's youthful visage, incredible density and enormous strength.

Eating the apples on a regular basis will help him to cope with living on Asgard if Odin is to be believed, but it will also make him one of them in terms of identity. He is already immortal, but by eating it, he will be recognized as Asgardian. There is not much of a choice, anyway; if he does not eat this first apple, he will be cast out within the week, as a stranger. Odin has already made the choice for him, and Harry finally sees the king for the shrewd man that he is.

He deliberates, but the decision can only be made with more information, and he is one against an entire realm, unless he eats the apple.

He finds his way to the healing chambers in search of Eir.

* * *

She thinks about his words from before, the conversation in the library. He had held himself well, and though his gestures were odd at times, they were of politeness and deference. The conversation had been pleasant, but he was extremely astute with regards to her concerns.

"_I am not a prophet, your Majesty, but there were many prophets throughout the histories of the many Kingdoms of my world. Prophecies were made, and many forgotten, and the few preserved were dredged up only after the time of prophecy."_

His world was vast, it seemed. The Realm Eternal was under the rule of one king.

"_There were stories of true prophets, cursed by their gifts until their kingdom fell into ruin, for no one would believe a single word. Others led kingdoms to their doom, for the gift of their sight was retracted following the corruption of their hearts. There were false prophets as well, proclaiming the end of the world, their words made believable only through their eloquence."_

His words had resounded with knowledge, long hours of scouring through history with purpose.

"_But my people were different. The prophecies uttered were made secret, sealed away from all minds, even by the ones who had given voice to them. There were great Seers, who proved the accuracy of their gifts time and again, but their bloodlines faltered under expectations. To this day, I only know of two which came true in my lifetime."_

"_The second one was privy to mine own ears, and it came true."_

There was a story behind that one.

"_The first one was overheard by a man of knowledge seeking power, what he heard was incomplete in such that there were many ways to interpret it. The sacred practice was broken, and the information was passed on to a corrupted mind, a man who sought power through knowledge, and freedom from Death."_

"_He disliked the idea of Death, that it was an ugly thing. That it was weak to succumb to Death. But the root of kindness to others lies forevermore in mortality, and in his quest of never dying, he ceased to never live as well, forever caught in the boundaries of life and death, always subconsciously destroying lives to sustain his state of non-death."_

"_It was obsessed over, and the prophesied became the eventuality."_

"_The prophecy involved two, a man who sought destruction, and a child who had not yet known the evils of the world. He was vanquished no less than eight times in a span of eighteen years, and with each loss of his fractured soul, he took something from that child."_

"_I was a martyr when I was a child, and I was forever so in their eyes."_

His eyes were full of knowing.

"_It is not the prophecy that came true, you see, it was the actions of people, who tried to make it happen, who tried to prevent it…"_

She could tell no one of her prophetic dreams, only able to dream of them night after night.

His arrival had affected her dreams of late, and it was no common occurrence. Her dreams were prophetic, which told of the unchangeable future, and his arrival left her dreams shifting. It was as if his arrival had shown her all the possibilities of the future.

But one thing was certain – she no longer woke up with unshed tears in her eyes.

* * *

**Managed to catch a few errors before posting, but many more may lurk about. **

**Feedback is greatly appreciated, as always.**


	11. Chapter 10

**I know. I have a lot of errors in spelling the terms like Æsir, jötunn, Jötnar. It annoys me greatly, but I probably won't edit them until I finish this _thing_.**

* * *

"I have an obligation to my King before you, Hreindýrinson," her voice is soft as always, and with that subtle note of calming.

Harry thanks her, and makes to leave through the doors when he hears her last sentence, "But it would be wise to keep your mastery of seidr a secret for now."

It is a reminder, because he has seen nothing but sharp edges and polished metal. There is not a hint of magic in this realm, except for the All-father and the Healers.

The hour grows late, and Harry makes a tactical decision – magic is most likely not encouraged, but he can take a page from the Weaseley twins.

_(You can do whatever you want to… the only thing to be mindful of is to never get caught. The only reason why we get caught is because of the recognition we get.)_

His Cloak and holly wand summoned from the ether, he spells his boots to be silent, and traverses the hallways in search of another source of information. The cloak and charms work, to his relief, as the armoured patrols pass him with nary a glance or twitch.

He finally finds a suitable person – one of two sentries positioned beside a sizeable door – the line of vision coincides with Harry's across the hallway, and the man is clearly bored out of his mind. A few charms ensure that the man is relaxed with eyes open, a parody of sleep, albeit with eyes open.

He sends tendrils of legilimency through, carefully watching for any cause for alarm. The probe takes without any problems, and he begins to investigate with Eir's caution as a starting point.

_Seidr._

Otherwise known to him as _magic_.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

'_The House of Odin is a great one, for it is under the Sovereign of the Realm Eternal. Under the Banner of Ravens, the warriors bask in the glory of serving the King and Queen of Asgard. He is one such warrior, and he hopes to work up the ranks to serve his King as a personal guard.'_

Harry files away the titbit for further contemplation; it is hardly useful in figuring out his decisions.

'_He will be able to bring his clan honor then – as a second son, he has been drafted into the King's army just like many others. His elder brother has inherited the clan's occupations, a tedious position, continually seeking traction between the textile markets of Asgard and Alfheim.'_

Not useful at all.

'_He is glad for the brother born after him, who has not the barest hint of seidr, and has finally managed to apprentice himself to a tannery. It is hard labour, but it is an honest work. His family would have been put to shame had his brother showed an affinity for the womanly arts.'_

There it is. He fixates on that bit of information, searching around for more. It is engrained into the family dynamics of this guard whose mind he is in right now, and it is a common mind-set from what he gleans.

'_Seidr. Trickery, fraud, unmanly.'_

The connotations are strong. Harry watches as the guard's past childhood fascination with the fantastical conjurations of seidr practitioners warp into ugly feelings of deceit and trickery. It is a lowly craft to these demi-gods, who have nearly an eternity – compared even to a wizard's life – to perfect physical craftsmanship.

And yet, the All-father is King, the first man that Harry knows has at least a substantial grasp of magic in his mastery. He leaves the man's mind, casting memory charms, leaving the guard to startle out of his assumed daydreams. His chambers have not been breached by anyone else, and Harry settles into the alcove, watching the unfamiliar night skies as he contemplates his position.

His hand has truly been forced. He is unwilling to take up the mantle of an '_independent advisor'_, but he balks at the idea being thrust into the threat of war between what seems to be several Realms with nothing at his back.

The apple tastes sweet against his tongue, and he can feel the '_heaviness'_ of it seep into his bones. Strengthening, reinforcing, refreshing. Mind, body, soul, _magic_.

Death has lingered in his vision for a handful of times, but She has given no indication that he is to leave Asgard anytime soon.

He would play Odin's game, for now.

And he would give as good as he got.

* * *

**Loki will make his appearance soon, and then you'll see...**

_(1/1/2013: I meant to have this up earlier. Loki should have make his appearance already, but I KO-ed before I could.)_**  
**


	12. Chapter 11

**Without further ado.**

* * *

**945 A.D.**

_War._

Despite all its repulsive horrors, it was not strange to be in the epicenter of it. He had perceived it before he could smell the smelting and forging of Asgardian steel. He had heard it thunder through the cosmos before whispers and worries graced the mouths of his fellow Asgardians.

He had seen Death, a phantom at his bed, sending him images of gleaming metal and the spatter of fresh blood, a forewarning long before he had seen the rage and anger in Odin's eyes, caused by the Jotnar laying icy waste to the humans who worshipped the Aesir.

Harry had not gone down to Midgard to fight on the icy battleground – once upon a time he had realized it to be Earth – but the place that he had once lived in did not exist yet, and there was a chance that it would never be.

And so, he stays on Asgard, preparing the second army to storm into Jotunheim on the return of the armies sent to Midgard.

And so, he watches the shimmer and glint of polished metal of the army before him, and can't help but imagine the surfaces speckled and smeared with blood.

* * *

_("I've destroyed demons and monsters, devastated whole worlds, laid waste to mighty kingdoms…")_

_**Odin All-father, script from Marvel's Thor**_

* * *

**And there we go.**


	13. Chapter 12

**Because I'm a twisted perfectionist of sorts, Rewrite will ****not**** be continued. It will be succeeded by Transliterations.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Because I'm a twisted perfectionist of sorts, Rewrite will ****not**** be continued. It will be succeeded by Transliterations.**


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